Chapter 14 #3
This was to be my last ‘official’ date of the week as I had something special lined up for tomorrow, which would be a perfectly explosive end to my dating career––if things worked out with Harry on Saturday, of course.
However, I decided to cancel, as the guy that I was going to date invited me to a wake, and had also thought that this was entirely acceptable. He told me that he didn't know the deceased too well, so I wouldn’t be the only one ‘out of sorts’.
Then as if by magic, Finn texted. He was out in town with some of his mates. They were all married, so he was on the scout for a wingman. I fancied a beer, so thought ‘fuck it’ and went to go and meet him in some god-awful establishment just off Leicester Square.
I trotted down the stairs of the sticky-floored bar and walked in on Finn and his workmates doing shots. All attention was focussed on Finn’s little brother and they tried to shove more alcohol down my throat than you’d have seen in a whole season of Shameless.
I was in the toilet when a weasel-like mate of Finn’s called Eric latched on to me.
He was about 30, but looked a lot older.
He was gravelly voiced and had a face like one of those big, scary Muppets.
He was going a bit bald and had a kind of front comb-over to try and disguise the tiny island of hair that clung to the top of his head.
“You go out on a lot of dates, then?” chipped in Eric excitedly.
“A few, yeah,” I said, dismissively.
“Shag loads of ‘em, do ya?”
Oh, God, here we go. The classic bored married man who wants to dine out on the life of a singleton. Is internet porn not enough for these guys anymore? The man was almost dribbling with anticipation.
“Sometimes, yeah,” I said, looking around for Finn or anyone else.
“Can I have a swipe?”
“I don’t think you’re gonna find your type on here mate,” I said.
“Go on. You can do the swiping. I just wanna have a look. Oh.”
“Told you.”
“It’s… I, I didn’t realise you were.-”
“Gay?”
Eric winced.
“It’s alright, you don’t have to look so awkward.”
“I’m not,” Eric said.
He pretended to be interested in the extensive range of Chupa Chup lollies that the bathroom attendant had on display, and quite frankly, I couldn’t be bothered to address whatever was going on in that mind of his.
I found Finn upstairs, looking worse for wear.
“What is it with that Eric prick?” I said.
“Oh, they’re all married and bored. They love all this dating stuff. I’m constantly being hounded about all my dating business,” said Finn .
“You might wanna hold it down a bit with old Eric. Anyway, how’s it going out in the field, anyway?”
“How do you reckon?”
“Same as me, probably. Although I’ve got a good ‘un lined up.”
I told him about Harry, and that I was probably supping in the Last Chance Saloon with regard to the old dating game. The bell was rung, the glasses were being collected, the Ubers were being ordered etc. etc.
“Well, good luck, mate. Now where the fuck has that Eric twat gone? He’s supposed to be staying at ours tonight. He lives out in Narnia or something, and can’t be arsed to get the last train. He gets a pass from his wife about once a month, and this is it.”
I made my disapproval clear with a face scrunch. We were in the bar for another hour, and Eric had completely disappeared. It was only until we went upstairs that we found him––attached to the face of some poor female human being. Someone that shockingly seemed quite attractive.
When he disengaged, he greeted us with an, ‘Eyyyyy!’ and Finn went into command mode to get him out of the establishment and into the Uber we’d ordered, which, according to the slow-moving slug on my phone screen, was three long minutes away.
Eric dismissed our feeble pleas for him to come with us and insisted on going somewhere else with his new lady friend. In the end, the overall sentiment was ‘fuck him’, so we left the bloke to it.
Of course, I presumed that he was heading for a whole world of trouble.
At the very least, he was going to have to deal with the emotional turmoil of having to live with cheating on his wife.
At the other end of the scale, there was the possibility that his wife would somehow happen upon a trail of deceit, and that would be that.
It turns out, the latter happened sooner than anyone would have predicted. The next day, Eric phoned Finn in an absolute flap, asking to stay at ours for a ‘few days’.
Apparently, what had happened was this:
Eric had gone back to the woman’s hotel and had attempted to have sex with her.
However, the nine pints of watered-down Heineken that he’d consumed had made sure his struggling erectile tissue would not allow this to happen.
He’d then left the hotel at 8am and instantly realised he’d left his phone in her room.
Of course, he didn't even remember her name, let alone the room number.
He had to wait in the hotel reception until she came down, so that he could retrieve his phone, which of course had a hundred missed calls and, ‘Where the fuck are you? ’ texts from his wife.
However, the texts and missed calls had suddenly stopped at 10am for some reason. Well, the reason was this:
Eric’s wife had made the genius move of picking up their iPad, which was linked to the same iCloud as Eric’s iPhone. Then she logged on to the Find My iPhone app, clocking that he wasn’t where he said he was…and the rest, as they said, was ‘Eric is super-fucked.’
Obviously, the phone was flashing up in a Central London hotel room––stationary for hours.
Had Eric returned home without the phone and pretended it was stolen, he’d probably have been fine. But because he came back with it, questions were asked, and Mrs. Eric erupted and kicked him out on his skinny arsehole.
Nobody was ever happy with their lot, were they? According to Finn, Eric’s wife was gorgeous and lovely in every respect, but it just wasn’t enough, was it? Even for a ratty little twat like that.
It made me think… is this chase for the perfect man worth it? What does it actually take to make someone happy? Even when you have it all, you just want more. Sure, I’d love to be with someone like Harry, but in five years, would I just turn into another Eric?
I mentally splashed water on my face, and told myself to stop analysing everything so much. So what if things did go wrong in five years? There would be a million more apps and we’d all be a billion times shallower by then. And I’d be 35ish.
Anyway, I had one more night of supposed freedom before I was to meet Harry, and this one was set to be a belter.